Die Nacht
by E. Blazer
Summary: When there are second glances, after all. [ErikChristine]


Well, hello there. So, I'm in the process of clearing out my computer before heading off to Real College, and I find this folder of random fics. Gee, I said, I wonder what's in here. I open up some stuff and find, among other things, this: a short fic written after I'd seen Phantom of the Opera. As stated, it's pretty darn short (I think once upon a time, it was the first chapter of something longer), but it reads fairly decent, I think. Therefore, I post. Simon Says Review.

* * *

Die Nacht

By Eileen Blazer

* * *

She sits up in bed. 

Whispers, "Erik?"

Beside her, Raoul doesn't stir. His back shines golden in the half-light of the moon, let into their room by paper-thin curtains; no need for anything heavier: it's always summertime in their home, always warm like that first day after spring. Cautiously, she presses a hand to his skin –its warm, soft, familiar- to make sure he's really asleep. "Raoul." Still, her husband gives no response. Satisfied, Christine turns her attention back to the darkness, to the odd prickling sensation that first urged her into consciousness.

Her heart is racing.

She slips two feet to the floor, wraps her arms across her chest, and stands. Shadows play upon the room, dancing, leaping between every corner and nook; the room has never been like this before, never so mysterious and strange in all the months she's resided here. Midnight alters it so. She pads to the door, still easy on her feet like the dancer she was, and presses an ear to the hard, heavy wood. There is life beyond the room, she reminds herself, maids and servants and the chef that prepares her soup a little too sweet every time. They keep late hours. But she hears nothing but the sound of her own breath, grown ragged.

There is movement behind her.

She pivots around, feeling something constrict in her chest; an emotional blending of enrapture and fear, and she _knows_ this feeling. All the blood rushes from her face, so fast she's nearly sick. Dizzily, she blinks, already half lost to the thunder of her heart and the silent, secret darkness. It cannot be!

But it is.

"Erik?"

Silence greets her, but it's a thick, powerful silence. The calm before the storm? How could he have returned –wasn't she- what happened to freedom?

"Erik?" She whispers again, this time demanding his presence.

Hands ghost across her hips from behind. Her eyes shut on instinct; her head tilting back to accommodate the gentle, gloved fingertips that caress her throat. A voice beside her ear tickles like feathers, whispering her name in soft, reverent tone. "Christine."

"Why are you here?" She murmurs.

"Because you called me."

No, she wants to say, that's not how it was at all. She felt his presence first, and then said his name. She didn't –she couldn't- she wouldn't have sought him out on her own. She made her choice in the murky waters beneath the opera house. This is what she wants. Freedom. Peace.

Only-

It's just that-

Why does his embrace feel so good?

So easy to open her throat and call out Raoul's name. He's there on the bed, amid the rumpled sheets and moonlight. But she's says nothing for the longest time. Her worlds are colliding, and she can't do a thing about it. What kind of wife is she?

The kind that can't keep from touching the opera ghost, apparently, because she turns around and slides her arms around his waist. One hand extends, reaching up to feel the perfect side of his face; he's cold as stone, but it's a good chill; refreshing change from the constant humidity of her home. He leans into the touch.

"You shouldn't be here." She whispers.

"Neither should you."

Before she has a good response to that, he leans forward and captures her lips in deep kiss. She ought to protest –_Raoul, so close_! - but the moment is surreal. Her darkest desire, that her Angel of Music had forgone all pretenses and just _claimed_ her. Snapped her open and burrowed inside, until the voice in her mind and flesh before her were finally reunited. Angel of Music, indeed: every part of her, save her voice, sings out, a desperate, lilting, wonderful song; she curls her hands into his collar and joins him in the forbidden embrace.

It's everything like that day in the water, and nothing like it at all.

She was trying, then, to show him the depths of love and compassion; but what did she know? Now, he's showing her, and she's once again the eager, willing student. They break for air, and a whine escapes her mouth; he freezes at the sound, and… attacks her. Slams her against the door so loud and fast she fears Raoul will wake and discover the betrayal, but her fears are fleeting because all too soon there's a mouth against her own, hands gripping her waist hard enough to leave bruises, and the desperation would be palpable, except there's no room on her tongue for any flavor but _his_.

They exchange kisses hard and fast, though it's not a competition; as always, they complement each other. So _sweet_. If this had happened before –if she'd have known- all this time!

"Where do I belong?" She manages, her voice hitching after nearly each word.

"With me." He answers, smoothly.

* * *

Raoul wakes to the sound of birds chirping, and he grins a little in response. It's morning again. Brightly, he sits up and reaches out for his wife. His hand glides through the air, though, forcing him to blink rapidly, to clear the haze of sleep completely from his eyes. The sheets beside him are perfectly smoothed, like no one slept there at all. He frowns, and then leans over the side to look for her slippers. Sometimes, she escapes the room early and seeks out the balcony.

His heart stops.

His skin grows pale.

His hands curl into tight fists, the unbelief curdling in his stomach like sour milk.

There, sitting neatly on the floor, a cruel mockery of the pandemonium in his mind, sits a simple rose; it's petals bending out towards him. He reaches down and captures it, half crushing the bud in his palm. _There's no way_. It is impossible. The phantom could not have stolen Christine away from their bedchamber, not even in the dead of night. He _couldn't_ have. Wouldn't have. Not unless…

Unless she'd wanted to go.

Fin


End file.
